THERE WERE AT LEAST FOUR GUNS PRESENT FOR EVERY PERSON IN THE house. Perhaps more. The problem with this was that the guns were not for those people; rather, they were aimed at the house itself, or more like its windows and its doors, hidden behind trees and bushes and cars. Once in a while a shape would trot over to join another in its hiding place, but then everything would fall still again. A hissing voice came over the radio and someone winced and turned it down.
Inside the house most of the few people present weren't even aware of what was going on outside. The couple who were were nervously monitoring the windows and the situation outside. One of them, a thin, anxious-looking man, turned away, rubbing his knuckles, to someone else inside.
"Jon, c'mon already. They got the place surrounded, you know--"
"So what?" Jon snapped back, giving him a face. "Just let them make their move, okay? Soon as they do you know where to go. Straight upstairs, bathroom on the right. You know what to do."
"But what if I don't have time--"
"Shut up about time, all right?" He raised his voice; the first man could distinctly hear clicking sounds outside. "Just make sure you do it, and they won't have nothing on us."
"Yeah," the first man muttered, "'cept our blood samples--"
"Listen, you," Jon hissed, surging forward, "you knew very well what you were getting into when you--"
A splintering, crashing sound from behind them. Both of them jerked around, their eyes widening. The others in the house, most of them in a stupor, came awake immediately.
"Police!" a voice shouted; the noise came closer. "Nobody move!"
"Ah, shit." Jon whirled back and pushed the first man away. "Joe! Go on! Hurry!"
Stumbling, the first man turned away and ran upstairs.
As soon as he was gone the room filled with men in bullet-proof vests, wielding guns. Jon found at least six of them aimed at his head and put up his hands. "Hey, fellas, I got nothing to hide, take a look for yoursel--"
"Shut him up," one of the cops--a detective from the look [sic] of it--said, pushing him away as a uniformed sheriff's deputy pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "I'm going upstairs."
"You want some kinda backup?" the deputy called, receiving no reply. He sighed, flustered, and handed the man back to another officer. "Keep an eye on him, okay?"
Upstairs Joe was bent over the toilet, dropping in packet after packet and flushing it almost continuously. When he first heard the pounding at the door and the muffled call of "Police! Open up!" he jumped, then continued what he'd been doing, only faster now. One of the packets burst open and powdered his hands. He didn't care. He just didn't want to get caught.
There was a thump on the door, and another, and another; it shuddered in its hinges and finally slammed open, flying against the wall. Joe jumped again when the detective he'd heard downstairs came in, stepping over some junk lying on the floor, his gun aimed right between Joe's eyes.
"Put them up!" he snapped.
Joe paused momentarily before raising his arms. As he did so he tossed the last packet he had into the toilet.
The detective snorted. "Oh, smart. You're really smart, you know that?"
Joe gave a helpless smile and shrug. When the detective turned to the toilet to retrieve the packet he pushed himself away from the wall, making a mad dash for what remained of the door. The detective reached around and grabbed him by the arm, whirling him back into the middle of the room. Desperate now--the cop had both the evidence and him--Joe turned on him and struck him in the chest, trying to break free.
The detective's eyes--they were a strange shade of light gray--widened as if with surprise, then immediately went dark. For a second Joe was surprised by how they'd changed color--how did they do that?--when the detective's face went livid with rage and Joe felt his fingers wrap around his neck. [Note--take notice of how Kristeva's eyes change color according to mood. I wasn't aware of it when I wrote this story, but this signifies something very important that I later discovered about him.] Before he could start struggling, assuming the cop was going to strangle him, he felt his knees bang against something and suddenly found himself breathing in water. He started struggling now. His head was yanked back sharply and he gasped at the air, water splashing from his ears and nose and mouth.
"You think you're so smart flushing the evidence, huh?" the detective snarled, his voice furious. "You think you're up for some kind of award? I'll give you the perfect award--I'm going to flush your face down this God-damn [sic] toilet, you piece of shit--!"
He plunged Joe's head under the water again, this time reaching for the handle and pressing it down. Joe renewed his struggles as he felt the water sucking around his face, a roaring in his ears. He tried to yell but sucked water into his lungs.
"Max?" The sheriff's deputy appeared in the doorway, panting from running up the stairs. "What's--" [Note--I believe, but am not certain, that this unnamed character is Deputy Kennard Scott, an old friend of Kristeva's from his days at the county post.]
His own eyes widened. "Guys!" he yelled to the other police fanning out in the hallway. A couple came in after him and they went for Joe while the deputy grabbed the detective's arm, trying to pull him away. Joe's head came up and he sputtered, screeching. It took both the deputy and another officer to drag the detective away, still shouting.
"He tried to kill me," Joe said weakly, still spitting up water.
"Stinking piece of shit son of a bitch--" the detective ranted. His face was absolutely wild. [Note--Kristeva's ranting is a bit goofy sounding, I admit, but this was mainly because I hate using the REALLY colorful swear words. He probably said something a bit more choice than this.]
"Max?" the deputy had to shout. "Max!" He grabbed the detective's arm as hard as he could; the cop turned to face him, blinked, and then jerked his arm away. He pulled away from the other officer, just about baring his teeth.
"Let go." They both backed away slightly, though the deputy hovered at his elbow, ready to grab him again if he had to. The detective cast a look at Joe, still being held at the other side of the room; Joe shrunk back under his withering stare. The cop finally snorted through his nose and dusted his hands.
"Cuff him," he muttered; the two officers holding him did so. The deputy turned to the detective as he started to leave the room, reaching for his arm, an instinctive gesture this time. His hand was sharply batted away.
The detective faced him and raised one finger. "Don't touch me again," he said, his voice soft but carrying a threat. The deputy backed away, raising his hands slightly. He watched as the other policeman left the room, then sighed and rubbed his eyes.
"C'mon," he said tiredly. "Let's get him downstairs. Sooner we're out of here the better."
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